The thousand. The magical number of points that’s supposed to guarantee an exit from the game. According to the scores that came up last time we got pulled, none of us is anywhere close. And none of us has actually met someone who hit the thousand and got out. When I asked the Committee about the thousand-points-and-you-get-to-go-free rumor, they didn’t really give me a straight answer. They danced around it, saying that no one on the planet would ever really be free until the Drau threat was neutralized.

I cut a glance at Jackson. For team leaders, the thousand points really is just a rumor. The only way out for a leader is to find a replacement, and neither Jackson nor I even have that option open anymore. We’re in the game for life, married to it, till death do us part—as in, either the Drau are dead or we are.

“Save it,” Jackson says to Lien, his tone harder than I’ve ever heard it. “Save that anger for the Drau.” He waits a beat, then continues, “Here’s my philosophy. Adopt it, and you’ll make it out alive. Every man for himself. You watch your own ass. Your con goes orange? You fall back to defensive position. No heroics. And no stupidity. Got it?”

“That makes no sense. We’re a team,” Kendra says with a wary look in my direction as she and Lien grab their harnesses and gear up. “What do you mean, every man for himself?” at the same time as Lien says, “You are some kind of asshole.”

Tyrone snorts a laugh. “Not some kind of asshole. The consummate asshole.”

Luka cuffs Jackson on the shoulder. “Nice way to make friends, Jack.”

This all feels so familiar. Jackson said a lot of these things to me the first time I got pulled. I didn’t understand any of it then. I didn’t understand him. But now I do. He’ll tell each of us to be selfish, to watch our own backs and no one else’s, but he’ll be wholly unselfish, watching out for all of us, expecting no one to watch out for him.

I consider explaining that to Lien and Kendra, then decide against it. Even if they believe me, which I’m not certain they will, Jackson will deny it. So why waste my breath? They’ll see soon enough.

Instead, I clarify his philosophy because I figure understanding it might mean they follow it. And that actually might help them at some point. “In Jackson’s opinion, if you’re trying to keep an eye on someone else, it splits your focus. That could get both of you killed.”

“It’s not just an opinion,” Tyrone says, his eyes locked on mine in a frozen instant of mutual understanding.

Richelle was killed because she was watching Tyrone’s back. At least, that’s what Tyrone believes. He thinks it was his fault.

“Scores,” Jackson says.

Kendra catches my eye and jerks her head in Jackson’s direction. “What’s with the shades?”

I smile a little, despite my nerves. “He likes to think he’s cool.”

Tyrone and Luka laugh.

“I don’t get the joke,” Lien says, snippy and pissy and dripping attitude.

“You will. Patience, grasshopper,” Luka says with a teasing grin.

Lien punches him in the shoulder. Hard.

She steps closer to Kendra and takes her hand. They exchange a look I can’t read and when Lien glances up and catches me watching them, her expression closes.

Then we all turn to face the screen hovering in the center of the clearing. The 3-D digitized rendering of Jackson appears, making him look like a character in a video game. He’s wearing the clothes he had on in Detroit. It’s like a snapshot of the last time he was in the game, the last seconds of that mission. I wince as I study the image. He’s lying on his back, his face chalk pale. His eyes are closed.

The emotions I felt in that second—hopeless, desperate, half-deranged—bite at me now. I tamp them down, refusing to set them free of their chains. I need to stay calm. I need to focus. One mistake could cost lives, and despite Jackson’s mantra, I’m not all about me. I’ll keep an eye on everyone on this team. We are all coming back.

The picture of Jackson flips end over end, then shoots to the top left corner of the screen.

Luka’s next. He has on the clothes he was wearing during our last mission. He’s down on one knee, leaning over something, his hands stained with blood. I’m guessing that’s my blood because there’s a clear view of my arm and my con, almost fully red.

“Something you forgot to tell me?” Jackson asks against my ear, his tone low and rigidly controlled. A sure sign he’s majorly pissed.

“I’m fine,” I mutter.

“But you almost weren’t.”

What am I supposed to say to that?

Luka’s picture flips over and over and zooms to the top left corner, knocking Jackson’s down a notch.

Tyrone’s next. He’s running, his expression intent, his focus complete. Up and over he goes, then zips into place above Jackson, below Luka.

The next picture’s Kendra. The black frame forms and her picture shimmers into place. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her mouth twisted, her arms raised before her, the black ooze from her weapon obscuring half the screen.

It’s a weird angle to have captured. Not for the first time, I wonder exactly where these pictures come from and how the Committee creates them.

Lien’s picture comes next. She’s pulling back, like she was about to take a shot and then didn’t.

My picture’s enough to make Jackson hiss through his teeth. I’m on the ground, wearing my sports tank, blood everywhere. Great. I tip my head back and stare at the sky for a second before looking back at the screen.